Nightmare
by Quaerenspuella
Summary: Portugal struggles again with her own feelings. ***implies Fem!Portugal X Netherlands*** [ONE-SHOT]


She simply couldn't believe it.

There she was, a full-grown woman in her twenties, behaving like any other teenage emo.

Weeping. Mourning. Feeling down.

She had been sure her crush had been definitely forgotten, categorically archived in some dark corner of her mind, next to all other humiliations she had been undergoing her whole life long.

The betrayal which had hit her so brutally was still burning her heart; even if she had constantly tried to move onward, to pretend nothing had ever occurred, to focus again on her population who needed her so much, those memories hadn't stopped hurting her soul.

Every night she dreamed of those green eyes.

Every blond man she ever met reminded her of him.

Every time she saw those three colors on a flag, _any flag_, her brains recomposed them into _his_.

She couldn't deny it, she was still in love with Netherlands.

And what now? Joana could hardly recognize herself.

Her secret informers had gotten back to her on him and had explained that he hadn't been able to succeed against Britain in the South-African campaign. Precisely like he had predicted, his army hadn't been strong enough to defeat his cousin's, although the resistance his soldiers had provided was to be admired. Indeed, they had had the perseverance to withstand for various months, even in a shortage of munitions and rations; but, at the very end, they had been compelled to surrender, the British military forces threatening them with showing no mercy towards women and kids.

The 19-year-old man had been forced to leave at once the territory which had been his own, being given only a little privilege, i.e. the exploitation of the diamonds mines he had discovered during his stay.

Portugal's reaction face to those dreadful news hadn't come out straight away. She had taken her leave of her servants and had locked herself up in her bedroom. The brunette had sat for a long time on her bed, silent, meditative, struggling with her personal feelings. On one hand she had been feeling like she was satisfied – yeah, he had paid for all the bad things he had done –, but on the other one her heart had almost been pinched, grabbed from the inside, for her fear was atrocious.

She had had the desire to write to him – a letter, a card, _anything_. Just to know how he was doing. She had lifted up the pen so many times, though the same number of times she had put it down again. Sending him some lines would have meant she still kept some feelings towards him; and, when he had departed, she had been quite exhaustively clear on this matter.

Those words had been echoing in her head so often.

_There's no way back_.

Nevertheless, she had fallen again into the trap.

She had come across him by chance, in an unexpected place, without even imagining that encounter would wake up such an overwhelming emotion in her being.

Without even suspecting _that_ love would quench another love.

"_Allora, restiamo d'accordo così? _By next Friday?"

"Yeah, that's it. Yet, it'd be better if you managed it by Thursday."

Joana had remained still, frozen in the step she was about to take.

She would distinguish that voice _everywhere_: it was Abel's. She immediately turned her neck rightwards, following the source of the sound, peeping feverishly here and there, looking for the silhouette she had unconsciously missed till then. She had the impression she had glimpsed the body she had long yearned for, but the street was too crowded to be sure.

'…I must get closer…'

She squirmed between and old couple and some youngsters having a drink, her breath becoming more and more accelerated. She could almost feel her hear thumping wildly in her breast.

'…if it's him… I… want to… need to see him!'

He was standing a pair of meters ahead, wearing his usual vest and smoking his pipe.

Joana's shy smile blossomed suddenly on her blushed face.

'…_Holanda! És tu…!_'

Hiding behind a pilaster, the Portuguese woman started staring at him in wonder. Her look sweetened. She was glad to see that, despite a broken leg, he seemed fine. Eventually, Rose hadn't been too cruel towards him.

Having Holland for her very eyes again aroused a warp of conflicting sentiments in Joana's inside. Out of the blue, she recalled the whole series of pleasant episodes she had had beside him: from their first meeting on the ocean to the duel they had performed in her training hall, back in Lisbon. All the photographs of those moments warmed up her heart. She remembered the expectations she had had about him and her sharing their existences, building up a family, co-leading their colonial empires.

Still, the disgraceful memory of her younger sister having sex with him popped up aswell, wrapping the Portuguese 22-year-old in an icy embrace. It felt like a thousand needles daggered her flesh _again_. She instinctively moved her right hand to the scar on her eye.

'…I stated that this would protect me forever, that no other man could fall in love after noticing it. But… apparently… it didn't prevent _me_ from loving…'

Nope, she certainly couldn't forgive him for what he had done, but perhaps she could leave it behind. She could tread ahead and give him a second chance.

"_Va bene, Olanda_. I'll keep you updated."

She rubbed her eyes vigorously, hoping her sight had been too blur for seeing properly.

Italy…! That was Italy's voice! And Italy… Italy had just kissed him!

Joana's lips started trembling. How could it be? How was it possible? Had Abel already removed her from his heart? Had he already found a new love?

What the Portuguese woman had seen was unquestionably correct. Alice had come closer to Netherlands and had pecked him tenderly, hugging him as cheerfully as she used to.

Joana bit her downer lip, stiffening his left fist. She reclined her head and closed her eyes.

Another nightmare. As if the affair with her Brazilian sister hadn't been enough!

After all, she told herself, he's right. I got rid of him. I said he shouldn't get to me ever again.

She dropped herself gradually, letting her back glide against the pillar.

'…_Itália…é tão bela… tão jovem. Eu não posso competir com ela._'

She managed to stand up with a great effort and slowly paced away, her eyelashes being pearled of warm tears.

If only she had heard the very beginning of Netherlands and Italy's discourse.

If only she had had the guts enough to face the Dutchman and ask for explanations.

Then she would have known that meeting had meant nothing but business for Abel.

Inspired by the following historical anecdote: Dutchmen used to select and shape their diamonds themselves, but then ask Italian goldsmiths to set them into bracelets and rings for they appreciated a lot Italian jewelry.


End file.
